


Fractured Faith

by HarleyRoux



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 01:31:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3469412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarleyRoux/pseuds/HarleyRoux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little comfort finds him as Teague Martin wakes from a nightmare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fractured Faith

_“Do not be deceived by his talk of Strictures._  
_Martin’s crimes weigh heavy on his spirit.”_

The overseer rouses in tandem with a clap of distant thunder. He pants softly, his back slick with sweat as he blinks away the remnants of a nightmare—the same that’s plagued him since arriving at the Hounds Pits. Dark temptations, and the pain of subsequent punishment. His elders cry ‘heresy!’ in frantic chorus as he’s forced to his knees, stripped of his robes, and left to the nonexistent mercy of cold, sharpened steel. The eyes of judgement sear his naked form, drawing a feeble scream to precede the river of blood forced from his chest. He writhes like a frightened newborn, drenched in agony until the blade is kind enough to sever his throat.

A calloused hand places over his heart, and he’s thankful then for the pulse that still throbs against it through his ribs. His breathing steadily calms as he’s soothed by the gentle pang of rain against the windows, and the sliver of morning light that peaks through the clouds above. It’s far too early to humor his doubts surrounding the day’s intentions, not that he wants to. He knows and fears how fragile his faith has become, and in the privacy of his own thoughts, scolds himself for wavering. It does not help to consider Farley’s festering paranoia, or Treavor’s nonchalance as he swipes fresh blood from his palms with a delicate lace handkerchief. The pair know nothing of regret, nor do they care to dabble in what plagues Teague Martin in mind, body, and feeble spirit, night after endless night.

_"In restless hands and roving feet._  
_In lying tongue._  
_In wanton flesh."_

Another hand, rough as the winds that warn of a coming storm, steals him back to reality as it places firm to his shoulder. A listless sigh escapes through his nose as he casts a sidelong glance towards the broad silhouette sprawled out beside him. The warmth of that hand restores faint color to his pallid cheeks, though peace does not find his weary mind. And so, the smile he wears is weak as he places his own atop it, lacing fingers with a man destined to drag him to hell.

”Daud,” he murmurs, voice strained with fatigue, “you’d better leave before the others wake.”


End file.
